


you're the summer in my mind

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry supposes it had started with Louis, really. Because even if nobody wants to say it out loud, everything starts with Louis.</p><p>(or, alternatively: harry and louis take a road trip after the take me home tour ends.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the summer in my mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> this is all for julia.
> 
> link to 8tracks mix [here](http://8tracks.com/novacanes/for-the-endless-summer).

Harry’s not sure what day it is. He thinks it might be a Tuesday, but it’s difficult to tell when each day has blurred together in a haze of interviews, promo and concerts. When they’ve been on the road for almost ten months, worn thin and patience stretched every way imaginable.

He remembers touching down in Tokyo. The bright lights of the city were once enough to send a jolt of excitement through him, when they first came here at the start of the year, and everything had seemed tinged with gold. But now, all it is to them is another sleepless night, hoards of screaming fans chanting their names wherever they go, and the confines of a hotel room.

He wonders how so much could change over a year. The once inseparable band of brothers, now shut up in their own minds and barely speaking to each other.

He supposes it had started with Louis and Eleanor, really. Because even if nobody wants to say it out loud, everything starts with Louis, somehow. 

****

They’d had a few weeks off between America and Australia, and nerves wearing thin, they’d separated for a bit, spending their time with the people they loved, although none of them had actually gone home.

Louis had gone to the Bahamas with Eleanor and his family, and returned with tired eyes and an utterly defeated expression. They’d been meeting at the airport for their flight to Adelaide, seeing each other all for the first time since the beginning of their break, and it’d been the first thing out of Louis’ mouth, blurted like a dirty secret he couldn’t help but tell.

“El ended things,” he’d said, “Said she still loved me, but she. She couldn’t do it anymore, y’know? With me never being here and the fans still going on about me and Harry – “ and the look he gave Harry was almost accusing, as if it was somehow his fault – “anyway. She’s too tired.”

Harry had been the first to hug Louis, holding his arms out so that the rest of the band could fit in, and they all stood together in silence until Louis tackled them onto the couch in their departure area, and they erupted in shouts.

When they’d pulled apart and all grinned at each other, something had clicked. For a moment, it was like the way it had been before the tour began, when they felt utterly at ease with each other. Before the strange barrier between them had formed and congealed.

And Australia was good at the beginning, the way it was last time. Funny interviewers and great weather and a more laid-back atmosphere than anywhere else they’ve been made it their firm favourite, but the huge lineup of shows quickly wore them out, and, well.

Louis after a breakup is something that nobody should really have to deal with. He put on a brilliant show, smiling and laughing for the cameras, for the rest of the world. But when he wasn’t in public, he was cold and sullen, and not responding to anyone, not really. He’d occasionally disappear for hours with Liam or Zayn, and Harry would remember when those conversations were with him, were their very own secret.

Because Louis was still his best friend, but it’s not the way it used to be.

By the time they were arriving in Sydney for the second time that trip (and had been recognized by an irritating number of teenage girls on the flight), they were all just about done. There’d been a swarm of paparazzi at Brisbane airport that they hadn’t been able to evade, and the mob had been too much for Niall to handle, setting him so far on the brink of losing it that not even Zayn dared to make anything better. And Harry hated seeing Niall like that more than anyone else, because it was so rare that it only really happened when things were properly fucked up.

They had a string of shows in Sydney, the same setlist that they’ve played what feels like a million times now. The little quirks and jokes they usually add in to keep things entertaining have been lost over time, and they still put on a damn good show, harmonies blending perfectly and crowd screaming for them, but they were just _tired_.

On their last night in Australia, they’d just played a show at a sold-out Rod Laver Arena, and they’re all high from it, couldn’t believe that _fifteen thousand people_ were there just for them. Niall suggests they all go out for drinks, and they headed to a hole-in-the-wall bar in inner Melbourne. It only took a few muttered words and they were at their own booth, sectioned off from the rest of the bar, ordering Coronas and chatting away.

“Lou, d’you know I saw a sign about how a girl wanted you to put your carrot in her?” Niall had said to raucous laughter a few drinks in, red-cheeked and loud-voiced, “Reckon those jokes’ll stay with you forever, mate.”

Louis groaned, dropping his head onto the table, “Wish I could go back and unsay that. Fuckin’ X-Factor. I was such an insufferable arsehole back then.”

Harry still remembers X-Factor, remembers being sixteen and caught up in the thrill of it all, the promise of their names in lights and being able to do this, to _sing_ for so many people. He remembers being absolutely fucking terrified for so long, and remembers friends developing into brothers.

He thought about Louis when they did X-Factor and couldn’t help himself from smiling.

“You were wonderful then, Lou,” he said softly, eyes locking with Louis’.

Louis held his gaze for several seconds, steady, before saying, “Let’s get some champagne. I want to make a toast.”

A while later, they’d been chatting to some of the locals, and Harry had decided to ask a girl back to the hotel with them. She was a short, 20-year-old brunette named Izzy, and although she recognized them (“how could I not,” she’d laughed, Australian accent coming through, “do watch the news, thanks!”), she seemed to be reasonably sane about it. Harry didn’t _think_ she’s the kind of girl that’d sell a story to The Sun or whatever the Australian equivalent was, but you never really knew.

It’d been well past midnight before they’d decided to head back to the hotel, and Izzy had accepted his offer, grinning. As they’d headed out, they’d been surprised by a group of men with cameras, snapping madly away at them.

“Fuck,” Harry had sighed, “Sorry, love, can’t really have you with me and have all that going on.”

Izzy just smiled, “figured. The papers say a lot about your reputation, don’t want to feed the flame?”

“S’not that I do this often,” Harry explained, “but…when I do, I have to be careful. The papers talk a lot of shit, really.”

He’d left her with a kiss on the cheek and hurried out after his bandmates, flashing a cursory smile towards the cameras as he closed the door of their car after him.

The ride back to the hotel was silent. The encounter with the paparazzi had made some of the tension resurface, and every so often Harry would see Liam open his mouth as if he was about to say something, but a stern look from Zayn would make him close it again.

They’d all shuffled into Harry’s room, settling onto the couch and bed just like old times, as if it wasn’t two in the morning and they didn’t have a ten-hour flight the next day. But instead of talking, they fiddled with phones and stared out the window, until the silence broke.

“Harry,” Liam began, tentative, “That girl isn’t coming, is she?”

“No, Li,” he’d sighed, “She’s not. Paps and all that.”

“Alright, it’s just – kind of irresponsible, picking up –“ Liam had broken off, almost like he didn’t want to have this fight, like he was just going through the motions.

“Shut up, Li, just because you haven’t been laid since Danielle broke up with you, for the second time might I add, doesn’t mean you need to take it out on Harry,” Louis cut in, and Harry couldn’t help but shoot him an appreciative whisper of thanks.

“Fine,” Liam said, “Just remember the headlines next time you decide to do something like that, and don’t fucking complain about the papers and all your unwanted attention.”

Harry felt anger boil up in him, because that was hardly fucking _fair_ , he hadn’t asked for the media attention, hadn’t asked for internet blogs and bullshit reporters blowing it out of proportion every time he so much as sneezed.

“Right. Get the fuck out, then,” he’d said, frowning. Harry never yelled, not properly, but he knew that this would hit them harder. And that was what he wanted – attention from his boys instead of the media circus.

The four others had filed sheepishly out of his room, Louis bringing up the rear. He’d turned as he left, looking like he wanted to say something, but at the very last second just shook his head and closed the door behind him.

****

 

So, Australia, Harry thinks. That was where it’d all fallen apart.

****

Their last night in Tokyo flies past as Harry and Niall go out and get properly plastered, singing karaoke off-key just because they can. Liam comes along (to chaperone, although none of them say it) and although the awkwardness that’s been there since the fight in Harry’s hotel room hasn’t dissipated, they’re more comfortable around each other, grinning easily. Zayn stays back to Skype with Perrie, and Louis doesn’t bother thinking of an excuse, simply waving them off with a “have fun!”

When they get back to the hotel, Harry says, “So, Li, how glad are you that I didn’t pick up?”

Liam frowns, but when he sees Harry’s teasing smile, he breaks into one of his own and replies, “tosser.”

Their flight to London is wonderfully calm, with only two girls recognizing them in first class and most of them sleeping through it. Harry dozes in and out of consciousness, and can’t help but see Louis turning restlessly in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. His whole body itches with the urge to go to him, let him curl against Harry so that he can drift off, the way that they used to.

Instead, he puts it out of his mind, plays the xx’s first album until he falls back to sleep and doesn’t wake up until there’s an announcement that they’re about to land at Heathrow Airport.

****

Coming home is one of the most surreal experiences Harry’s ever had. He heads straight back to Holmes Chapel, and when he arrives, he’s ridiculously grateful to see that there aren’t any fans outside his house – instead, it’s just his mother, Gemma and Robin at the door, waiting for him with teary eyes and outstretched arms. He very stubbornly tells himself he’s _most definitely not going to cry_ , but can’t really help it when he’s being held in one of the tightest embraces of his life.

Dinner that night is a family affair, and his mum’s made up a proper Sunday roast the same way he’s always liked it. (His heart pangs for Nick and the Primrose Hill gang, and he makes a mental reminder to text Nick and ask when they can meet up – he’s heading back to London next week, bringing Gemma up with him for a bit before they go home for Christmas.)

Harry thinks it’s odd, the way that all those months of missing someone can immediately go away once you see them again. Being here, around his family, it’s almost like he’s never left.

The week with his family passes quickly, and he heads out most days to catch up with old friends – although, he doesn’t really have many around here anymore. His old band have stopped sly digging him in the papers and just begun ignoring him altogether, and it’s been too difficult to keep properly in touch with a lot of others.

So yeah, home is nice, but he can’t help himself from missing the band, really. Despite everything that’d built up between them in the last few months, they were still brothers, and Harry knows they’ll never lose that.

When Harry and Gemma are leaving for London, their mum gets suspiciously misty-eyed, and when Gemma says, “you’re being daft, mum, I’m only going to be gone for two weeks and Harry’s coming up a week after I am!” their mother just sniffles.

“I just feel like I’m always saying bye to you, is all,” she replies, bundling them into a family embrace, and Harry’s heart fucking _breaks_ for her, because it’s not fair, really, that he’s seen her about four times the entire year and he’s leaving her again.

“I’ll call or text every day and there’s always Skype, or you could just come down if you want – “ he babbles, hugging her again.

Honestly, Harry’s really just holding out that they aren’t forced to be away for so long next year, that they’ll just be doing the third album and maybe will have a bit longer of a break. He misses his family more than anything else when they’re away, and he resolves (like he always does, really) to fly them out more, to call them more, to do anything he can to stop his mum from looking like that.

He just needs to keep reminding himself that it’s worth it.

****

London is bright lights and swarms of people, but it’s like a sigh of relief when they arrive, mostly because it’s not one of the foreign cities they’re always in, anonymous clusters of lights.

His house is cold and dark when they arrive, and although his mum’s just had it cleaned in anticipation of his return, there’s the feeling that it’s almost abandoned, empty for too long. He flicks on the heating as he and Gemma shiver in the late November air, and can’t help but think of Louis’ house, with it’s shitty heating that he’d always said he was going to get fixed but was never in one place long enough for it. He wonders if Louis is cold, wonders if he’s dug out the blanket that he and Harry had kept on the couch of their old flat when it was especially cold or they just wanted to snuggle underneath it. And then, of course, he feels like a fucking idiot, because honestly, Louis is probably still at home in Doncaster or spending time with Stan or something, and Harry just needs to move the fuck on.

He picks up his phone later that night and sends a text to Nick: _back in London! Drinks sometime with Aimee or Pix?_

It’s only 10:30, but Nick’s reply is: _trying to get my beauty sleep, do have a radio show to present tomorrow morning. not that you’d know anything about working, mr washed-up popstar, heard you’ve been living in a cardboard box for the last year. had to get the wanted on, of all people._

Harry smiles despite himself, and the next message comes in seconds later: _sure, though – see you tomorrow night._

****

He meets Nick at Groucho the next night, inadvertently arriving ten minutes early in his excitement. Nick’s late, as usual, so Harry orders a drink and messes around on his phone for a bit, texting him: _fame gone to your head, grimmy? I’m waitingggg_.

Instead of a reply, Nick breezes into the club several moments later, and the grin on his face reminds Harry of weeks spent together last year, of sneaking onto the night show and heading out afterwards, of curling up on Nick’s couch because he didn’t want to go back to an empty house.

“Hiya, popstar,” Nick breathes, and Harry all but flings himself into his outstretched arms.

“Hey, Nick,” Harry mumbles into his chest, smiling.

Nick signals to the bartender, and once he’s ordered his drink, perches on a bar stool next to Harry. “So tell me, how was the tour?”

                                                           

Harry thinks. His mum had asked him, of course, but it was different with Nick – they’d always been honest with each other, sometimes brutally so.

“It was fucking brilliant, all those sold out arenas and people screaming – for us, Grimmy, for _us_ – and we sounded great, of course.”

He pauses and Nick says, “I sense a but coming.”

“But I really missed home. S’harder than we expected, I think, being together for so long, and not really getting to do much else. We had about a month off, I think, altogether. And when Lou and Eleanor broke up…” he trailed off.

“Shit,” Nick replies, “Is he alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “Was pretty crushed around the end of tour, but. He’s home now, with his mum and sisters, and I’m sure he’s alright.”

“That’s good,” Nick replies absentmindedly, and Harry can tell he doesn’t really care, that it’s a mark of the strength of their friendship that he’s even asked in the first place.

“But yeah, when Louis is like that… The band pretty much falls to shit. Liam yelled at me, paparazzi got more fucking irritating, if that was even possible, and stuff even got weird _on stage_. That was kind of the one place everything was alright, sometimes, and it was gone.”

“Sounds like we need to get you spectacularly fucked up,” Nick says, calling the bartender over again, “Should I call up some people?”

“Nah,” Harry replies, “I’ll see them soon. Reckon I’ll just hang out with you tonight.”

“Alright,” Nick says easily, taking a swig of his drink.

They tumble out of Groucho at around midnight, when Nick’s whined about how he has to get up for the breakfast show about eight million times, and Harry’s said, “Alright, alright, _we get it_. You’re the presenter of the biggest radio show in the nation, don’t go on about it or anything.”

“I’ve taught you well,” Nick says as they climb into the taxi and Harry drapes himself all over Nick, limbs attaching to whatever they can find. Nick smiles fondly at him, carding his hands through Harry’s curls until he almost purrs. Nick quite likes drunk Harry.

“Can I stay at yours tonight?” Harry mumbles, “Just that Gem’s at her friends’, and I hate my empty house, it’s so fucking cold –“

“Yeah, I remember. And you can stay at mine so long as you don’t complain when I wake you up at five-thirty in the morning.”

“Deal,” Harry says into Nick’s sweater.

****

Harry wakes up with an awful taste in his mouth and a dull thud in his head. As hangovers go, he’s had much worse. He really just wants a McDonalds breakfast, to be honest.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s in Nick’s bed, sprawled out across the sheets, and there’s a glass of water next to him on the nightstand with a note: _At work – be back around 11, don’t vomit in my bed please Harold_.

Harry potters around Nick’s apartment for a bit, relieved to see that he actually has food in his cupboards these days. He cooks himself some eggs on toast and flicks the radio on, needing a bit of noise in the house. After constantly being around people for so long, silence is unnerving to him – he mostly just needs background sounds, whether it be the TV, music or just the sound of one of his best friends chattering away on the radio.

He texts Lou and arranges to head over to their house – he won’t lie, he loves seeing Lou and Tom but mostly prefers the company of Lux, despite the fact that she’s at the obnoxious toddler stage and is probably one of the most spoilt children ever (thanks, in no part, to Harry, who believes that she deserves the world. He thinks that when he has his own children, he’ll probably find it impossible to say no to them). He leaves a note of his own for Nick, and heads out.

Spending time with the Teasdale-Atkin family is always exhausting, and this is no different. Sam’s over as well, and she greets him with a large embrace and insists that he tells her all about tour, so he does while Lux bounces excitedly around him. He stays for lunch at theirs before going back to his house to get a change of clothes and pack some stuff so that he can stay at Nick’s for a few days. He knows that he’s going to insist that Nick takes him out to see Pix, Aimee, Gillian and everyone else, and he knows that Nick will grumble about having to wake up early but will give in, because he missed Harry and just doesn’t like admitting it.

Harry thinks what he likes best about Nick’s friends ( _his_ friends, he corrects himself, because they are his friends now, despite the fact that he still feels nervous around them, young and fumbling for words) is that they don’t treat him like a celebrity – they mostly just make fun of him for being in a boyband and being about eighty years younger than they are. When they do that, he’ll just laugh and share a secret smile with Nick, because he doesn’t think they would have ever been so close without bonding over the fact that Nick was mistaken for his father, of all people. And when he brings it up, Nick squawks, “I’m _eight years older than you_ , Harold!”

Everybody erupts in laughter, and Harry thinks, _yeah, I really have missed this._

****

Harry’s first week back in London passes in a daze, as he tries to catch up with everyone that he’s missed as fast as he can. He’s utterly exhausted by the end of the week, the jet lag that’s been following him around for a while hitting him with a vengeance. When Nick calls to make plans, Harry has to beg off, pleading exhaustion and promising that he’ll see him in a few days. It reminds him of the middle of 2012, right before they dropped the album and began promo work, when he’d stayed at Nick’s house for almost a month and headed to the night show every day. It’s odd, he thinks, that he and Nick have fallen back into their old patterns even after so long not seeing each other, but it’s also possibly the best part of their friendship.

He meets up with Zayn, Niall and Perrie the next day, inviting them all over to his house so he can make lunch for them. Liam’s still in Wolverhampton with his family, and Louis must be with his own as well. Being in London has changed things between them, though. It’s a little easier to breathe around them, to laugh and joke the way they used to be. And the ache in his chest lessens a bit, because Harry needs his boys. He’s used to them being around, doesn’t really know what to do without them.

Ed’s in London for the night, playing a gig, so Harry and Niall head to the show while Zayn and Perrie go to see Danny and Ant. Ed’s fucking phenomenal as always, and he messes around with them for a while backstage, Niall playing one of his guitars as the three of them harmonise on Kiss Me. Harry loves the sound of other people’s voices blending with his own, can’t imagine being solo, but it’s not _right_ , not having the other three there.

They head out to one of Niall’s favourite Irish pubs that night, ordering pints and swapping horrific tour stories – Harry tells Ed about the time he opened the door of his hotel room and a fan was lounging on his bed in only her underwear – until there’s a hazy glow around everything and Harry’s properly happy, the way he never felt at the end of tour.

****

And then the unexpected happens. It’s 4pm and Harry’s on Nick’s couch with a cup of tea and an old episode of Great British Bakeoff, when his phone starts ringing – and the caller displayed on the screen is _Eleanor Calder_.

“Sorry, Nick, gotta –“ he gestures, getting up.

“Sure, sure,” Nick waves him off lazily, too engrossed in Mary Berry to properly see Harry’s concerned face.

Harry slides his phone to answer as he goes into Nick’s bedroom, perching on the bed. “Eleanor?”

“Hi, Harry,” she says, voice shaky. “Sorry – I wouldn’t usually bother you, but.”

“It’s Louis, isn’t it?” He asks, sighing.

“I’m worried about him. I just – I just went over to his to pick up some of my stuff that I hadn’t cleared out, and,” her voice breaks.

“What is it, Eleanor?” Harry says, not wanting to be sympathetic towards her despite his instinct to somehow hug her through the phone, because he knows he’s biased, but _she broke Louis’ heart_.

“He’s just sitting there on the couch, and you know the fucking heating’s shit in his house, and his eyes are just. You know when Lou’s sad, what his eyes are like? There’s nothing in them, Harry. I don’t know what to say, because this is my fault and _I still fucking love him_ but I can’t make it better. I can’t be with him anymore.” The words rush out of Eleanor’s mouth as if she’s furious – and she is. She’s angry with herself for it, for making this mess in the first place.

“El, it’s okay, I promise,” Harry soothes, “I’ll – I’ll go over there and see him, sort things out. Just, maybe? Just leave it, for now. I don’t think anything you do can make it better.”

“Alright,” she sniffles, “I’m so sorry, Haz. Thank you.”

“Bye, Eleanor.”

And suddenly, Harry feels like the biggest fucking twat in the entire world. His best friend – his _best friend_ – wasn’t at home with his family, hadn’t spoken to anyone, hadn’t been out. He was just sitting on the couch of his house with his shitty fucking heating, probably shivering to death, and Harry’s been too busy trying to catch up with every single fucking person to even care.

_His best friend._

When he goes back out into the lounge room, Nick looks up at him and asks, “everything alright, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry lies, but Nick’s knowing look tells him that he sees through him. “It’s Louis. God, I’ve been so fucking selfish, just –“

“Harry Styles,” Nick interrupts him, looking very serious. “You are not selfish. You wanted to come home and spend time with people you haven’t seen for almost an entire year. You thought Louis was at home with his family. You thought he was fine. Whatever it is, it’s not your fault, and I know you can fix it. You’re great with him, always have been. Okay?”

Harry pulls Nick off the couch and into a hug, mumbling _thank you_ into his shoulder.

“I have to go,” he says, “Have to see him.”

“Alright,” Nick replies. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

****

The car pulls up outside Louis’ house, and Harry can’t calm his shaking hands. He’s nervous for what he might find inside, for what Louis will be like.

The path up to the doorstep is one that he’s walked hundreds of times, awfully familiar, and he rings the doorbell while thinking of times when the band would come over and crash for the night, all sleeping in random places of the house after getting monumentally fucked up off of too-expensive wine and spirits.

But Louis doesn’t answer, not even after Harry rings the bell two, three, four times. He digs in his pockets for his keys, remembering the spare key Louis had given him, still fastened firmly to his keyring.

He hasn’t had to use this key in so long that it takes him a while to remember how to twist it, has forgotten that you have to jiggle it upwards slightly when you turn it, otherwise the door won’t open. But he’s inside, then, and calls out, “Louis?”

Louis doesn’t reply, but Harry can hear the muffled sound of the television in his living room, and walks down the hallway towards it.

Louis is sitting on his big white couch, curled up against the leather with the blanket from their old flat. Keeping Up With The Kardashians is on the telly, and Harry remembers the nights they would cuddle underneath it and laugh at Kim. But Louis looks awful, bags under his eyes and surrounded by empty packets of food. His eyes flicker towards Harry, and he says softly, “Hi, Hazza.”

Harry can see Louis wearing his warmest jumper and sweatpants underneath the blanket, and thinks that he’s probably still cold, because the fucking _heating_ in this place still hasn’t been fixed, and Louis’ eyes are so sad. Louis reminds Harry of a kitten, really, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so small.

“Oh, Lou,” he breathes, making space for himself on the couch and letting Louis curl up against him, nuzzle into him. “Why didn’t you call? You could’ve – I would’ve –“

“Didn’t want to make a fuss,” Louis says, “You were with your family, everyone’s with theirs, everyone wanted to see friends. I’m alright, really. I promise.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Lou,” Harry says gently, pressing a kiss to the top of Louis’ head. “I know you, remember? Better than anyone else. I would’ve done anything you wanted me to.”

Louis looks up at him and smiles, the one he uses for the cameras without the crinkles by his eyes. But it’s a smile, and Harry swears to himself that when Louis’ smile comes back, it’ll be because of Harry.

“Maybe if we cuddle and watch Kardashians for a bit,” Louis says, attaching himself firmly to Harry, “and we can get dinner and you can stay here?”

“Sure,” Harry says, grinning amiably.

So he climbs under the blanket, turns the volume up and tries to think of how he can fix Louis.

****

 

The solution comes to him when he’s lying awake at 2am, woken by Louis’ restless murmuring next to him on the couch. Alexa had been talking about the road trip she’d taken in America with another friend of hers, going on and on about how it’d been the perfect escape and exactly what she needed. And this – well, Louis needed to get out, to get away from this too cold, empty house.

But America isn’t right, not for them. They’d spent an entirely too-long leg of their tour there, and the paparazzi and fans are very good at finding them, they’d found. Australia, on the other hand… If they headed somewhere remote, maybe up one of the coastlines, they’d be able to stay anonymous. Louis could surf, maybe – he and Liam had always loved that. And Harry wanted to wash the bad taste of their last trip to Australia out of his mouth, because it was a beautiful country, so why let that be tainted by bad memories? Making new ones seemed to be the perfect answer.

Before he drifts back to sleep, Harry makes a mental note to research road trips in Australia.

 

****

 

Harry books a flight to Sydney at eleven the next morning. He doesn’t tell Louis about it, or about the fact that he’s called up a guy and bought an old Kombi camper van. He’s done maybe half an hour of research, and decided that they’ll drive along the coast from Sydney and then into Queensland, maybe go to the Great Barrier Reef.

He pops home for a couple of hours to pack his bags, telling Louis he has to run some errands. Packing light is surprisingly easy, but then again, they’ve all been living out of each other’s suitcases for the better part of a year.

The problem about being in an internationally successful boyband is that it’s quite difficult to just spontaneously pack up and go on a holiday. There’s a whole range of calls Harry has to make, from Paul to the rest of the band, to booking the private jet (because they can fucking afford it, alright, and Harry’s had enough of the fans on those goddamn long flights). It doesn’t take long, though, until they’re cleared, and Harry takes a car back over to Louis’ house and asks the driver to stay there until they come out.

Packing for Louis isn’t difficult at all, mostly because he’d never really bothered unpacking in the first place. Harry all but pushes him into the shower while he packs their toiletries, and Louis doesn’t even tease him about being in the bathroom while Louis’ naked.

By the time they arrive at the airport and are driven out onto the tarmac, Harry can’t help but be more worried about Louis than he was before. He’s barely said a word to him, hasn’t even asked where they’re going.

“Alright, Louis?” He asks as they get out of the car, although he knows he’s really not.

“Yeah,” Louis replies softly.

“I’m just surprised you haven’t asked anything about, y’know, where we’re going.”

“Trust you,” is all Louis says before taking his bag from the driver with a nod. Harry smiles despite himself.

The plane takes off without a hitch, and it’s so wonderfully quiet that Harry thinks he’ll try and campaign for one of these for their next tour. The flight attendants leave them well enough alone, and they can use their phones (although the reception isn’t too wonderful ten thousand feet in the air) or the wi-fi on board, which Harry does, sending a quick message to Nick and saying: _gone to Australia with Louis. Don’t know when I’ll be back – see you soon, though!_ And then he switches off his phone, putting Bon Iver on through his earphones and willing the flight to go quickly.

About half an hour later, Louis is asleep on his shoulder, where he stays (and drools) the entire time.

 

****

 

It’s hot in Australia. Like, really, actually properly hot, and the sun is beating down on them until they can barely see, squinting out of the corners of their eyes, and Harry really wishes he wasn’t wearing jeans right now.

The man with the van is waiting at the airport for them, in the special area that Harry had asked for him to be taken. Their Kombi is there too, and Harry inhales sharply when he sees it. It’s white and burgundy, the colour fading and peeling around the edges, with matching leather seats and room in the back for what is presumably their beds. It looks old and used and worn, like it has so many stories to tell that it’s overflowing with it.

Harry absolutely loves it.

They head to a hotel to stay overnight while Harry figures out where exactly they want to travel up to. He rings up the guy with the surfboards and asks for two – he gets a customized one that they’ve set aside for Louis, and says he’ll just take whatever’s left. They read the brochures online, and when Harry finds something about the scenic Pacific Coast, he’s immediately intrigued.

“Hey, Lou, how’s this – we can drive from here up till Brisbane, keep going if we want, maybe head to the Great Barrier Reef?”

“Whatever you say, Harry,” Louis replies, scrolling idly on his phone.

Harry sighs. “Louis, are you stalking Eleanor’s twitter profile?”

“…..No?”

“Fuck’s sake, Lou,” Harry says, exasperated and fond at the same time. He rolls off his bed and onto Louis’, pulling his phone away from his hands. “You’re not getting this back till we get home. If you want to talk to your mum or sisters or whatever, you can use mine. Otherwise, you’re cut off. No technology whatsoever.”

Louis doesn’t really put up a fight, mostly just pouting at Harry, who remains stern-faced until he can’t help but smile at Louis’ ridiculous puppy eyes.

“No pouting, either,” he teases, “that’s reserved for me.”

 

****

 

They load up the Kombi with their bags and surfboards the next day. An interested glimmer appears in Louis’ eyes when he sees the boards, although he doesn’t say anything, so Harry just files it away for later. As they’re driving to the north of Sydney, passing places like Whale Beach and Avalon, Louis pulls out the ridiculous road map that Harry had insisted on, refusing to buy them a GPS (even after Louis had rolled his eyes, saying “it’s not like we don’t have the money, mate”). They’re only driving for about two hours when they come across a town called Terrigal, and it’s almost lunchtime so Harry figures they should probably stop for a break.

They order fish and chips from a little beachside store and traipse down to the beach so they can sit on the sand and look out onto the water. They eat their food (the chips without vinegar, because Louis hates vinegar on his chips and Harry goes along with it even though he loves it, because it’s Louis) almost in silence. Harry can’t help but throw a stray chip to a seagull, and Louis groans at him.

“What?!” Harry asks indignantly, looking offended.

“Haz, those fuckers are gonna surround us now,” Louis shakes his head. “Proper daft sometimes, you are.”

“But he was just walking around, and look, Lou, he’s only got one leg!” Harry points – and it’s true, the seagull’s hopping rather than walking. Louis can’t help but laugh, and reach over to ruffle Harry’s hair.

“Proper saint, you are, Harold.”

“Mm,” Harry agrees, and then reaches over to steal the last chip before Louis can get to it.

Harry’s decided that the first place he wants to go is the Hunter Valley, mostly because he wants to test exactly how drunk someone can get from wine tastings. So they get back in the car and start driving up north and inland, flicking on the radio to Nova – “Not the station with that knobhead Kyle, please, Harry,” Louis had said – and Harry drums his fingers idly against the wheel to the sound of Ke$ha, while Louis hums along. But the next song that plays is Live While We’re Young, and Louis immediately goes stiff, so Harry plays with the dial until he finds a station called triple j, playing the Arctic Monkeys, and sighs in relief.

“Found something with your twatty hipster music, have you?” Louis teases, but really, Harry knows that Louis loves most of the same music as him, just refuses to admit it because _I’m not a terrible snob like Grimmy, thank you very much_.

They pull into the Crowne Plaza almost three hours after they’ve set out, and the old Kombi gets a couple of weird looks, but really, they’re international superstars and they can certainly afford a night in this hotel. Harry isn’t pleased though, and tells Louis just that.

“Lou, this is meant to be about getting away from all that,” he frowns. “You’ve just directed us to another bloody hotel.”

“Yeah, but we’re going to go get drunk off of posh wine tomorrow, and you certainly can’t drive if we’re doing that, so we’re going to have to get someone to drive us or go on a tour or summat, and we may as well have a nice bed to come back to, yeah?”

Harry’s too tired to argue, really, so he just shrugs and collects a room key for them from reception.

They call down to reception, ask for a private wine tasting tour for them to be booked the next day, and Harry can’t help but think of how adult this feels, think of how Louis is almost 22 and he’s 20 in only a few months. Can’t help but wonder how this all happened to them so quickly. It’s his life, has been for the last three years, and he still doesn’t think he’s ready for any of it.

The next morning, Harry wakes up before Louis, and busies himself making tea for the two of them just like he used to when they lived together, when he’d wake Louis up with a knock on his door and get into bed with him and two mugs of tea, flick on the telly and have a lazy cuddle.

Today, though, Louis gives him a tight-lipped smile and sips his tea in silence, and Harry doesn’t fucking know what to _do,_ how to broach the invisible barrier that’s been thrown up in between them. They’ve never been like this, never had trouble forming words around each other. And Harry wants to go to Louis, wrap his arms around him and let him nestle into his chest the way they used to, but he’s terrified Louis will tell him not to, or even worse, break down. So they sit in silence until it’s time for their car to come and pick them up, both of them too scared to broach the divide.

 

****

 

Harry likes wine. Harry _really_ likes wine. Harry really likes all the vineyards they’ve been to, friendly hosts smiling at them with a “g’day” and glasses waiting for them, different sauvignons and cabernets.

Louis likes wine as well, always has. “Gives me a sophisticated air, I think,” he says pompously before chuckling. “Actually, think it just reminds me of getting pissed with Stan in the park near my old house. Fond memories, innit?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, shifting on one of the seats the café they’re at has placed outside, leans forward on the table. But he doesn’t really have all that many fond memories from his old life. It feels like he only really started living once he got on the X Factor, once he became part of One Direction.

Once he met Louis.

When they finally tumble back into their hotel room, tipping their tour guide generously, it’s time for dinner – Harry had wanted to head out, but Louis pleads, “can’t we just get room service? Dunno where the fuck we can go without driving, this place all looks the same to me. Looks beautiful, yeah, but like. S’just a lot of vineyards.”

Harry can’t help but agree, falling onto his bed and pressing his face into his pillow. “Fine – you have to call up though, just get two of whatever you’re having.”

When their food arrives (burgers set on plates, garnished and fresh), Louis has to almost drag Harry up to eat it.

“You’re like a sleepy kitten when you’re drunk,” he says, and kisses Harry on the top of his head.

It’s like Harry wakes up instantly with that, eyes flickering to Louis wildly. But Louis acts like nothing’s different, his eyes still dulled and expression blank. Harry realizes Louis isn’t as tipsy as he is, because whenever Louis gets drunk in a mood like this, he turns positively maudlin, almost melodramatic in his sadness. Or Louis is drunk and this breed of melancholy is different. The kind he doesn’t want to talk about. And Harry’s not used to that, can’t deal with that.

So he doesn’t.

****

 

The next place Harry’s marked on the map is the coastal area of Port Stephens – “dolphins, Lou! I want to see them!” – and with a quick Google, they find out that it’ll take about an hour and a half, and they can stay at a caravan park on the beach.

One Mile Beach isn’t exactly imaginatively named, but it’s beautiful, waves rolling in perfectly, and Harry can see Louis’ eyes light up in interest. He searches through his brochures for information as they pull into the caravan park, and reading through the text on the area, lets out a laugh.

“What is it?”

“We should head to Samurai Beach sometime, Haz,” Louis smirks, “Clothing’s optional. Your kind of place?”

Harry can’t help but laugh, punching Louis lightly on the shoulder.

They get a place for their Kombi, parking it several spaces away from another caravan, which has an elderly couple sitting outside it. When Harry and Louis get out, they offer up a friendly wave, which is reciprocated. They don’t expect anything further, but then the two are coming over to them with smiles.

“Hi there,” Louis says, “how’re you?”

“Alright, thanks,” the man says in a brash accent, “I’m Max, and my wife’s name is Jane.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry replies. “I’m Harry.”

“You two from England, then?” Jane asks them, and thank god for old people being completely oblivious to technology.

“Yeah, came over here for a bit of sightseeing,” Louis replies, stepping towards Harry.

“Oh, well, you’ve come to the perfect place for that. Lived here all our lives, haven’t we? Max just retired, so we’re doing the road trip as well.”

“Would you have any advice for us, on where to go?” Harry asks, figuring people that’ve been here will probably be more helpful than the brochures balled up in their front seat.

And Max rattles off a list of places and attractions – it’s almost too much for Harry to take in, but Louis is nodding serenely, so he figures it’ll be alright.

“We’re just going to be off then,” Louis says, “Thank you so much for your help.”

“Oh, anytime, boys,” Jane smiles at them. “And I must say, you two make a lovely couple.”

Harry and Louis exchange a glance, stepping away from each other almost instinctively.

“Um – we’re, we’re not. A, um,” Harry trips over his words, blushing furiously.

“Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry, dear. Just the way you look at each other, I thought.” Jane looks abashed, and Harry immediately feels awful.

“It’s fine, really,” he says, “But we’ve got to get going. Thanks again!”

And just like that, the distance between Harry and Louis feels further than ever before. Louis refuses to meet Harry’s eyes, doesn’t so much as look at him. And Harry remembers other times like that, times in the X Factor house when people assumed, and people didn’t care, because they could just tell that Harry and Louis (they’d come as a pair back then, names joined together in “ _HarryandLouis”_ ) were something different, something that nobody could define.

Harry doesn’t want to be ungrateful, but sometimes he thinks he would give everything up to go back to that, for Louis to just look at him the way that he used to.

That night, they realize that they’re about to sleep in the Kombi for the first time, and an issue immediately arises.

“There’s only one bed.” Louis says, frowning.

“Shit.”

The guy on the phone had said, “Sleeps two,” and they’d been in it long enough to know that there was only one queen-sized mattress, but Harry hadn’t even _thought_ of that.

“It’s fine,” Louis says, “Not like we haven’t shared a bed before.”

And that’s certainly true enough, so Harry swallows his protests and climbs into the bed alongside Louis. They don’t touch the way they used to, legs curled against one another or hands brushing, but lie apart, both staring away from each other.

“I think I want to go surfing tomorrow,” Louis says.

“Okay.”

And so they lie in bed together, both trying to fall asleep, but Harry can’t. It’s like a physical ache to be so close to Louis but not be allowed to touch, to feel the heat radiating from him but not be able to wrap himself up in it. And it’s even harder because even when Louis was at his absolute grumpiest, moaning and pouting and being a general dickhead to everyone, he’d still pull Harry in for a cuddle late at night, open up to him.

It’s not like that anymore.

****

When Harry’s alarm goes off at 5:30 in the morning, he pries his eyes open and realizes, _oh_. He’s wrapped around Louis from behind, their legs slotted together and hands intertwined. _Magnets_ , his brain thinks, before he tells himself to shut the fuck up, because really.

They drag themselves down to the beach as the sun rises, Louis in a wetsuit and carrying his board and Harry in one of Louis’ comfiest jumpers and his favourite beanie with a bauble on top. Louis heads out into the water and Harry sits down on his towel to watch.

And the thing is, Louis is beautiful out there, the curves of his body aligning with the waves in the most wonderful way. Harry thinks he could probably watch this forever if he wasn’t so ridiculously tired. And maybe if he lies down for a bit, he can watch Louis later.

And then, before he’s realized it, Harry’s half dozed off, lying spread on the towel. He’s pretty sure there’s sand in his ear when he wakes to the sight of Louis dripping on him, holding his board under one arm.

“Proper professional surfer, you could be,” Harry smiles, sitting up.

“It’s fucking amazing out there, Haz,” Louis says, and he grins back, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his pupils almost shining. It’s the most genuine smile Harry’s seen since before he broke up with Eleanor, and the fact that Harry’s the one that put it on his face sends a pool of heat to his stomach. He wants to be the one to make him smile like that over and over, feels like he’s sixteen again, unsure and infatuated.

But the moment passes, the smile fading from Louis’ face, and he sits down next to Harry on the towel. “Quite like it here,” he says. “Maybe if we stay for a few days?”

“Whatever you want, Lou,” Harry says softly. There are tiny drops of water clinging to Louis’ hair, his tan shining in the early morning sun, and Harry’s heart seizes up. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss anyone more than he does Louis right then.

The thing is, Harry and Louis never got a chance. Not really.

****

Harry remembers when he and Louis had first met. He’d been singing in the bathrooms, because it’d been the place with the best acoustics and he wasn’t usually interrupted while everyone was at lunch. Louis had opened the door and walked around the corner, straight into Harry.

“Oops!” He’d said, laughing despite the fact that he’d just barreled into someone.

“Hi,” Harry had breathed, drinking in the sight of him, the blue eyes and crinkles in his smile, the fringe sweeping across his forehead.

“You’re Harry, right?” Louis asked, “You’re amazing, you are. Reckon you’ll win this thing. Either you or that guy Liam.”

Harry beamed, because that was what he was _there_ for, to win this thing. But he was terrified, really, every time he got up to sing, because everyone was so much more experienced and talented and just.

What chance did a 16-year-old kid who worked in a bakery in goddamn Holmes Chapel have?

“Thanks,” he said, instead.

“I’m Louis, by the way. Wait, y’know what? We should get a picture together. ‘Cause then, you can autograph it, and when you get famous and I’m back home in Doncaster doing whatever, I’ll sell it on eBay and make loads. Deal?” He chattered on, all the while dragging Harry outside and looking around for someone to take their photo.

Harry had just nodded, slightly dazed. Who _was_ this ridiculous ball of energy, and could Harry keep him forever?

They’d gotten their photo, Harry had gone off to sing, and, well. The rest was history.

Harry can remember other things, can remember the second night at the bungalow with Louis’ fingers tracing along his cheekbones, can remember flushing with pleasure when Louis intertwined their hands, can remember stolen kisses after midnight and bodies pressed against each other like a secret.

And he remembers when X Factor finished, almost three years ago, and they were swept into a flurry of signing contracts and writing and meetings with important executives and it just. It was all so much. He can still remember it like it was yesterday, sitting down with Louis and talking for hours, trying to figure out what they were going to do.

It had been too much, then, too strong and too fast, and Louis had just gotten out of his relationship with Hannah, and they were about to go on tour and record their album and. It was for the good of the band, they decided, if they stopped fooling around. Harry remembers the looks that the other three had exchanged, laced with meaning, when they’d told them, and something like shame had unfurled in his stomach.

And then they’d been swept away by fame, too busy to even think about what they’d once been. Louis had met Eleanor and been charmed instantly, and Harry made friends with a new circle, had his ill-fated fling with Caroline, and they’d been _fine_.

Until they weren’t, and maybe that was how they’d ended up on a beach in the middle of nowhere, Australia, the centimeters between them feeling more like an ocean.

It’s like it’s hit Harry all at once now, now that Louis isn’t with Eleanor and they’re across the other world from the band. Everything he hasn’t let himself feel for years is building up inside of him and he wants to do something, to shout or sing or just turn to Louis and _kiss him_ , for fuck’s sake. But Louis turns to look at him again with that dullness in his eyes, and Harry can’t do that right now, because that’s not what Louis needs. He needs to be Louis’ friend, and whatever it is going on inside Harry, well.

He’s bottled that up for a couple of years, a bit longer can’t hurt. Can it?

 

****

 

They head out from Nelson Bay Wharf the next day on a dolphin watching cruise, sailing into the cerulean of the sea as the sun shines.

“Can we just live here forever?” Louis says, turning his face up towards the sun, “Does it even ever _rain_?”

“I think it kind of has to. Otherwise, y’know. Things would die.” Harry says, not very eloquently. He can’t really be blamed though, because Louis is wearing aviators. Louis looks very good in aviators. Harry wants to tear them off his face and throw them into the water before he can do anything stupid like attach his lips to Louis’.

It’s awfully quiet and peaceful on the boat, despite the group of people on board with them, and Harry’s enjoying it. So of course, that’s when a teenage girl approaches them, looking starstruck.

 _Shit_ , Harry thinks, because of course the place they come so that they can get away from everything, their fucked-up lives in the spotlight, is where they get recognized.

“Um.”

“Hi,” Harry says, forcing a smile.

“Hi,” she breathes, grinning, “Um, would I be able to? Get a photo?”

Harry notices her hands are shaking a bit, and he can’t really be annoyed at that, so he nudges Louis and they get a photo with each of them and the girl’s mother takes one of all three of them standing together, the girl in the middle.

“Thank you so, so much!” She grins brightly.

“No problems – hey, could you do us a favour, though?” Harry asks.

“Anything!”

“Just don’t post these online anywhere for a couple weeks. We’re kind of trying to keep a low radar, don’t really want people to know where we are. Quite like having a quiet holiday.”

“Oh, sure!” She practically skips away, and Harry smiles over at Louis.

“It’s weird,” Louis says, “That we can get recognized, even out here. That we have fans in the most obscure places.”

“D’you think we’ll ever get used to it?” Harry murmurs, settling back on the bench next to Louis.

“Probably not, but that’s the fun of it, innit?”

It’s not like Harry’s never seen dolphins before, he’s been to aquariums and all of that. But there’s something different about it, out here in the wild, the way they crowd around the boat like it’s the most fascinating thing ever.

Louis is equally entranced, snapping away on his phone.

“Wait,” Harry says, “Since when do you have your phone?”

“You’re a very deep sleeper,” is all Louis says in reply, and Harry just shrugs. It’s not a big deal, really. Louis has been fine so far, and he figures it doesn’t really matter whether he has his phone or not. So he takes a photo of Louis making a face and tweets it with the caption _someone really likes dolphins…_

They don’t get back to the caravan park until late that night, and fall into bed exhausted. But as tired as Louis’ eyes are, he tosses and turns until Harry wants to hit him because for fuck’s sake it’s past midnight and he just wants to _sleep_ , okay?

“Lou?” He murmurs in the dark, restraining the urge to whack him.

“Sorry, Harry.”

Harry feels instantly guilty, knows that Louis gets like this, voice in his head talking at a million miles a minute and keeping him up. He also knows that whenever Louis can’t sleep, all he needs is to curl up against someone and just let himself breathe.

So he reaches for Louis under the covers, pulls him towards himself.

“C’mon, neither of us’ll get any bloody sleep if you carry on like this.”

“Haz, I really don’t need –“

“Shut up, Louis.”

The warmth of Louis’ body against his is something Harry hasn’t known he’s missed so much, the curve of his spine slotting in perfectly against him. He feels like a cliché just thinking it, but it’s as if they’re the two puzzle pieces that solve the jigsaw.

Louis’ breathing slows down only several minutes after he’s in Harry’s arms, and feeling him relax makes Harry calm as well. Harry can’t put a name to his emotions right now, but his thoughts are a tired mixture of _safe_ and _home_ and _mine_ , and he falls asleep more content than he’s been in a year.

****

They leave Port Stephens the next day, waving goodbye to the elderly couple as they drive out of the caravan park and head back onto the highway. Harry’s decided he wants to stop at Seal Rocks next, despite Louis’ insistence that he’s about 99% sure that there are no seals there.

“Haz, I think it’d say in the brochure –“

“Don’t care, Louis. I like seals. They had nice seals in the Central Park Zoo that time I went with Taylor Swift. I don’t think she liked them very much, though.”

“I don’t think she liked _you_ very much,” Louis teases, because despite his outrage when Harry and Taylor had been photographed out and about, he mostly just enjoyed the opportunity it gave him to make fun of them.

“Hey,” Harry says, elongating the ‘y’. “I was a perfect gentleman. S’not my fault I can’t act for shit.”

Louis can’t help himself then, laughing wryly as he exchanges a glance with Harry.

That’s when Louis’ phone goes off, playing the intro to a song Harry vaguely recognizes as being by an indie Australian band. _It’s been a long day, I’m absolutely aching, to lie down next to my girl and tell her all about it_ , they sing, and Louis stares at it, dumbstruck.

“That’s Eleanor’s ringtone.”

Harry almost drives the van off the side of the road.

“Are you going to pick it up?” He asks, managing to hold back the long string of curses that threatens to erupt from his mouth.

But Louis has already pressed the phone to his ear, saying, “El?”

Harry’s eyes flicker over to Louis worriedly, but Louis is staring straight ahead at the road as he says, “Yeah. Just with Harry. I’m fine. Somewhere on the east coast of Australia, north of Sydney, I think? No, I’m fine, I promise.”

He hangs up minutes later with a sigh. “She was drunk. It’s almost midnight back home. Kept asking me if I was okay. She says she misses me, but _fuck_ , Harry, she broke up with me, so what the goddamn fuck am I meant to do?”

Harry wants to scream. “This is bullshit, Lou, I’m so, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Louis replies, voice blank, “I’m fine.”

And Harry can see that he’s not, can see him building up barriers around himself again, can see the anger thinly veiled in Louis’ blue eyes. But he doesn’t want to push it, doesn’t know how to broach the subject without making things worse, so he just turns the radio on and keeps driving.

                                                                                   

****

They’re only driving for about an hour, a while past the Tea Gardens, when the Kombi starts making slightly concerning noises and putters slowly to a halt.

_Fuck._

“Fuck,” Harry says, this time out loud, wild eyes turning to Louis.

Louis just sighs and tilts his head back against his seat.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Harry rambles, unbuckling his seatbelt, “There’s practically nobody else out here and we can just turn the emergency lights on so nobody will hit us, and then we can call…someone?”

He realizes that it’s not exactly a plan, but Louis just looks so tired and pissed off that he figures he has to do _something_. So they clamber out of the van and onto the side of the road, and Harry pulls his phone out of his pocket, intending to call the man who sold them the Kombi.

 _SOS only_ , the writing at the top of his screen seems to taunt him, and he swears again.

“Shit, Lou, we’ve got no service out here.”

“Tends to happen in the middle of nowhere, “ Louis remarks dryly, stepping off the main of the road and onto the bitumen next to it.

“It’s fine, we’ll just wait for someone to come by and I’m sure they’ll stop for us, we’ll get a tow or something. It’ll be okay.”

Louis just gives Harry a dirty look and leans against the side of their van.

The thing is, despite most Australians being pretty friendly; none of them are willing to stop for a stranded old Kombi on the side of the road. It’s been more than an hour and a handful of cars have gone past, all of them studiously ignoring Harry and Louis.

“This is pointless,” Louis mutters, “Nobody’s gonna stop for us.”

“They _will_ , Lou, just –“ Harry stubbornly says, cutting himself off when he realizes he has no idea what he’s going to say next.

“Just _what_ , Harry? This whole thing is a shitshow so far and now you’re asking me to keep following you while you lead us god knows where in this piece of shit battered old van?” Louis snaps.

And that’s when the heavens open on them, the rain dropping first in a few spots, hitting Harry’s nose as he blinks in surprise. It’s only a matter of seconds before it’s pouring, though, clinging to their hair and soaking their clothes.

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” Louis yells at the sky, and Harry can’t help but laugh at him in his steadily more transparent t-shirt and shorts, hair messy and water dripping from his forehead. Harry’s laughter erupts from his mouth as rain falls through his hair, because _god this is ridiculous, rain in summer in Australia just when they’ve broken down and are on the side of the road, of fucking course this would happen to them_.

“I guess that answered your question about the rain,” Harry chuckles, tilting his head back to the sky and catching the rain on his tongue, and Louis turns to him with a dark expression, and his eyes are hard and unforgiving.

“This is all your fault,” he growls, “You with your stupid van and your fucking beach and your – your –“

He surges forward, and a rush of adrenaline sweeps through Harry’s veins as Louis’ fist collides square-on with Harry’s mouth and his lipsplits open, he can feel it, and then. And then Louis is pulling back, looking terrified and apologetic and Harry has to do it, grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him for the first time in three years, their lips melting together like a promise that’s finally being fulfilled.

Harry’s lip is bleeding, the bitter metal and salt taste of it swept away by Louis’ tongue, and Louis’ stubble is scratchy against Harry’s skin and none of it should work but it _does_ and it’s happening and Harry can feel himself shivering in the cold of the rain but he doesn’t care. He can’t care about anything else, not while his mouth is pressed against Louis’, not while Louis smells and tastes like the ocean, like freedom, like safety. Like home.

Louis is pressing him up against the door of the Kombi, licking into his mouth with urgency, like he wants to claim Harry, like none of the other kisses he’s ever had have mattered. “ _Mine_ ,” he growls into Harry’s mouth, as Harry reaches behind him to open the door so that they can stumble inside, out of the cold.

“God, fuck,” is Harry’s response, mumbling against Louis’ lips as they fall onto the mattress, “Yeah, Louis, I am. Wanted you for _so long_ , you don’t know. Missed this so much.”

It’s almost too much for Louis as he pulls back, eyes wide and darting around him like a deer in the headlights, and he really _cannot_ deal with Harry so eager, telling him how much he wants him, so he kisses him again to shut him up. It’s messy and dirty and Harry’s shaking with the overload of it, because Louis is everywhere, pliant underneath him and it’s almost too much after years of feeling frustrated and bottling all this up. He wants to spread Louis out, kiss every inch of him and mark him up, tell the whole fucking _world_ that they belong to each other.

Louis moans into Harry’s mouth, and that’s enough to make Harry’s body melt against his, legs slotted in between each other so that Harry can feel Louis hard against him (and he’s sure Louis can feel him, too), and he rolls his hips down experimentally.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, “Can’t – need you inside me.”

Harry can do that. Harry can definitely do that; Harry’s brain isn’t short-circuiting or anything ridiculous like that. Neither of them are wearing their shirts ( _how did that happen_ , Harry wonders idly before realizing there are more pressing matters at hand), and it’s only too easy to fumble at Louis’ shorts whilst he does the same for Harry. Harry’s so hard he’s almost aching with it, and the realization that he has no fucking clue where the lube is makes him groan.

It takes him far too long to rummage in his suitcase and find the bottle, and he _really_ can’t be arsed with a condom – he figures Louis hasn’t had sex with anyone other than Eleanor and they definitely would have gotten tested, so it should be fine – and then he’s back on top of Louis, kissing him again. Now that he’s had a taste of it, it feels like every second he spends not kissing Louis is time wasted.

He sits up again, drizzling the lube over his fingers and moving so that he can press one against Louis’ hole, sliding it in and reveling in the needy little noise that Louis makes at the back of his throat. He wants to tease Louis, wants to make him pay for three years waiting on him, but he also really just wants to fuck him, doesn’t think he can hold out for much longer. So he presses another finger in alongside the first, not bothering to be gentle, and Louis groans louder this time, writhes against the sheets. He looks an absolutely debauched mess, and Harry fucking adores it, loves the way that Louis comes apart for him when he’s so put together for the rest of the world.

Louis reaches up to pull Harry towards him, kissing him and winding his fingers through his hair as he tugs gently at a curl, moving his hand up to scratch at his scalp. Harry almost purrs at that, wonders how Louis remembers everything that makes him fall apart even after so long. He kisses Louis greedily, wants to take and take because this still feels like a dream.

“Harry,” Louis groans breathlessly, “Need you to fuck me, wanna come with you inside me.”

So Harry slides his fingers out so that he can slick his hand up with lube, run it over his cock, and he knows that Louis will be tight, knows he probably isn’t ready yet, but he’s too impatient to keep fucking him with his fingers, and he can tell Louis feels the same.

He positions himself against Louis, the head of his dick brushing against his arse and Louis shifts so that he’s rubbing against Harry, and _oh,_ that is enough. Harry pushes in as gently as he can, and Louis closes his eyes, gasping.

“Lou?” Harry asks, pausing worriedly, “Are you – d’you want me to stop?”

“Fuck,” Louis growls, “No, keep going, god, I just.”

Harry does, and the feeling when he bottoms out against Louis and kisses him, presses their whole bodies flush together, is the closest he’s ever felt with someone, and he has to keep his mouth closed before he says something that could fuck everything up.

He fucks into Louis quick and unrelenting, groaning as he feels Louis’ cock brush against his stomach, trapped in between both of their bodies. They’re so close to each other that there’s friction from it, and he reaches down, wraps his hand around it and strokes in time with his thrusts. The _sounds_ Louis is making are ridiculous and animalistic, murmuring ridiculous things against Harry, but mostly begging _please_.

They’ve both been so achingly hard for so long, and Harry’s known he wasn’t going to last from the moment that he was pressing inside Louis, so it’s no surprise when Louis is clenching around him as he comes, moaning as Harry strokes through it. As he rides it out, he bites Harry on the shoulder and that’s enough to push him over the edge as well, groaning as he whites out for a second or two.

Afterwards, it’s like the tension between them has eased, Louis quiet but in a different, more contemplative way. They lay together for several minutes, Louis tracing the curve of Harry’s collarbones with a silent smile, until they realize they’re on the side of the road in their broken down caravan and this is slightly ridiculous.

They’re only standing outside for several minutes, looking appropriately disheveled and unable to stop themselves from sneaking glances at each other, laughing like teenagers when their eyes meet, when a truck driver pulls over and gets out.

He’s big and burly, but he’s got friendly eyes and he knows what he’s doing, fiddling around with the front of the van.

“Battery’s a bit messed up,” he explains, “gave it a bit of a boost, you should be able to head up into Forster – you won’t be able to get a mechanic in Seal Rocks, but they’re pretty close to each other so you can head back down if you want to – and get everything fixed up.”

Harry and Louis thank him about eight hundred times, and offer anything he wants in return.

“Actually, my daughter’s a big fan. Would I be able to get you to sign something?”

They both nod, grinning at each other, and sign the proffered piece of paper, adding a thank you to her father. Louis glances meaningfully at Harry once the truckie’s left, saying, “Still can’t believe people know who we are.”

Harry kisses him on the cheek, because he can, and says, “Come on, let’s get going.”

****

The drive up to Forster isn’t as long as they’d expected, and they find a cute little bed and breakfast tucked away from most of the town but still near the beach. They check in as the sun’s setting, and Louis wants to get the Kombi to a mechanic as soon as they can, but Harry just shrugs it off.

“We can get it fixed whenever. C’mon, I wanna go get dinner and watch the sunset.”

There’s a Thai restaurant in the main strip, and they decide to get takeaway so they can sit on the beach. “Not worth it, being inside, when there’s a view like that,” Louis says, and honestly, Harry couldn’t agree more. There’s something about being outside, breathing the mid-December air and feeling freedom wash over his skin that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of.

He takes a quick photo of Louis with noodles hanging out his mouth and sends it to Niall, Zayn and Liam. He’s been texting them every night, letting them know where the two are and telling them they’re okay. Tonight, the photo’s accompanied with the caption _kombi broke down but we’re alright, sitting on a beach with takeaway – think Lou forgot his table manners :) xxx_

He realizes before he sends it that it’s earlier than he usually texts them and he’s probably woken someone up, but he’s too happy to give a shit, really. This is all he wants, his best boy and the ocean stretching out in front of them.

They finish eating in companionable silence and get up by an unspoken agreement when it gets dark, making their way back to the B&B along the boardwalk on the beach. Their hands brush together as they walk, and instead of pulling away, Louis tangles their fingers together for a moment, squeezing hard before he lets go.

“I let you top earlier, but when we get back I’m going to fuck you so hard we might break the headboard,” he whispers wickedly, eyes glinting, and. Well.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t want that (the rush of blood to his cock definitely confirms it), but there’s things they have to figure out first, and he knows it.

“After we talk,” he replies, firmly enough that Louis knows not to push it.

Their room is cozy, with a queen bed and sofa with a coffee table placed in front of the small TV, and full-length windows that will let the sun stream across their bed in the morning. They settle onto it, Harry stretching his legs out as he says, “So.”

“God, where do I start?” Louis says, smiling a bit. “Everything’s a bit fucked up, isn’t it?”

“It was Eleanor, yeah?” Harry prompts, because he knows if he doesn’t get Louis started then they’ll go around and around and never _talk_ about anything.

“Yeah, I mean. I guess I think I knew it was coming? She’d text instead of calling and she’d always be too busy with school to fly out with us. But it was before Eleanor that this all started, I think. I think it was even here last year, and it was because of you.”

“Me?” Harry’s taken aback, because – well, he’s never thought of that, honestly. When they were on tour, it was the papers all focusing on him because apparently he was sleeping with four hundred girls in a year when really he got laid once a month if he was lucky, and any girl he talked to he was dating, and then Taylor had come out with that song and it was fucking mayhem for a bit, interviewers dragging up ancient history.

“I wasn’t allowed to want you, is the thing,” Louis replies, “And so I didn’t let myself, but you’re pretty irresistible sometimes, Styles. It was just the whole thing, because on one hand we were on tour, selling millions of records, living the dream, yeah? But then it was everything else, like the fans that still tweet me awful things about El and tell me to come out of the closet, the press that keep making up the gay rumours, and you know how I can never just worry about myself. There was Liam and Dani, which was a right fucking nightmare round two, and then all of our supposed fucking _fans_ being right arseholes to Zayn just for being who he was, and not even Niall was handling it sometimes.”

Harry’s stunned, because, well, it’s not as if he didn’t know they were happening, but the fact that this is what Louis is worried about, not himself, but his boys – it’s so idiotic, but it’s so typically Louis.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Harry asks. “You were so caught up in all of this that you forgot to worry about yourself. And this is my fault, too. You’re my best friend, I should’ve been able to see –“

Louis snorts at that, “I’m good at hiding things when I need to, apparently. Someone had to keep us together. You four boys are all I need, and I was watching it fall apart in front of me.”

He pauses, inhaling sharply, before he continues, “I think what I was most terrified of wasn’t losing the other three, it was losing you. Because I think I’ve always known it, but you’re my forever.”

Harry can’t help himself then, has to lean over and kiss Louis, try and say all the words that haven’t spilled from his mouth yet. When he pulls back, Louis’ eyes are shining and there’s a brilliant smile on his face, and Harry hasn’t seen him this happy in god knows how long, doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being amazed by it.

He doesn’t tell Louis he loves him then, figures it’s too much for one conversation, but he files it away for later, promises himself he’ll do it before they go home. Louis deserves to know, he thinks. Louis deserves the world, really, and all Harry wants is to give it to him.

****

It’s a couple of days later, and they’re just arriving in Byron Bay, when it hits Harry.

“Shit, Louis, it’s the 23rd,” he says, whipping his head sideways, “It’s your fucking birthday tomorrow!”

“Was waiting for you to catch on,” Louis grins fondly, “Almost thought you were gonna forget.”

“Jesus, Lou,” Harry breathes, “I probably fucking would’ve, you absolute tosser. I’m surprised you weren’t the most obnoxious twat in the world about it like you usually are, remember last year when you texted us all a countdown for an entire month before?”

“I think Zayn blocked my number,” Louis laughs, “He turned up to my party, though, which is more than he did for you.”

Harry pouts at him, because Louis didn’t go to his either. “Well, at least he didn’t choose Andy over his best mate, like someone else I could mention.”

“Fair point,” Louis replies, “Although I’m proud to say I saw the light after that. He’s a bit of a tosser, dunno why Li hung around with him for so long.”

Harry restrains the temptation to say _I told you so_ , but it’s in his eyes and he can’t help himself from laughing when Louis pokes his tongue out at him in defiance.

****

Harry sneaks out early in the morning while Louis is still asleep, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He heads to the supermarket, glad that they’d figured out how to get around the tiny township last night, and picks up a cheap, probably heart-attack inducing mud cake and a packet of candles. Passion Pit is playing over his earphones as he walks back to the apartment they’re staying in, and he has to stop himself from positively bouncing along to Little Secrets.

Louis is just stirring when he gets back in, eyes fluttering open as he sits up.

“Good morning, birthday boy,” Harry says, getting back into their bed so he can lean over and kiss Louis, just a chaste brush of lips.

“Don’t remind me,” Louis groans, “I’m getting horribly old.”

Harry rolls his eyes, “Fine. If it’s not your birthday, then I guess you’re not getting any birthday blowjobs.”

“Woah woah woah,” he replies in indignation, “Who said it wasn’t my birthday?”

Harry just smirks, kissing down Louis bare chest until he reaches the top of his boxers, pulling them down and enveloping his cock in his mouth’s wet heat until Louis is shaking underneath him, moaning pleas and fisting his hand in Harry’s hair as he comes.

They have a spectacular breakfast of cake and Harry makes sure to sing Happy Birthday to Louis as raucously as he can. The calls from home come in as it hits midnight over there, and the first is from the other three, who are all together.

“Happy birthday!” They chorus, voices overlapping in a way Harry hadn’t realized he missed until he heard it again. Their conversation is mostly idle chatter, and neither of them say anything about their newfound relationship.

“Sorry I didn’t get you a present,” Harry says after they’ve hung up, feeling suddenly guilty.

Louis just looks at him before saying, “I already have everything I could ever want.”

****

In the afternoon, they head to the Cape Byron Lighthouse, walking the whole way from their apartment. It’s a solid hour, much of it uphill, and Harry’s forehead is covered with sweat by the time they’re up there, but the view is so beautiful that he finds it hard to complain.

They ask a friendly-looking woman to take their photo, and they stand with ridiculous grins on their faces and arms slung around each other, overlooking the sea. Harry immediately makes it the wallpaper on his phone and texts it to the boys and his family, because he wants everyone important to know that he doesn’t think he’s ever been happier.

Later that night, they’re lying in bed; fucked-out and sated from a particularly athletic several hours of birthday sex, when Harry says, “I want you to teach me how to surf.”

Louis’ eyes light up, and he says, “Really?”

“Sure. Looks fun. Anyway, how hard can it be if you can do it?”

That just earns him a pinch on the arm.

****

Surfing is an absolute disaster, it turns out. It’s not that Louis is a horrible teacher; it’s just that Harry has absolutely no balance. Or co-ordination. Or anything that makes you a good surfer, apparently.

It’s after about his eighteenth wipeout that Louis can’t help himself any more, bursts into laughter and can’t stop, clutching onto where he’s resting on his board so he doesn’t fall off and drown from it.

“’M sorry, Haz, it’s just that –“ And he dissolves into giggles once again, eyes crinkled and sparkling.

Harry absolutely beams back at him, because sure, he’s laughing at his expense, but it’s been so long since Louis has just let go like this, has let himself be happy. It keeps hitting Harry again and again, that this is all because of him, that he’s helping put Louis together again, and he’s never felt prouder.

They lie out on the beach, and nobody looks twice at them or recognizes them or anything, because why the fuck would two British boys be in Australia by themselves on Christmas Day anyway? Harry digs his feet into the sand and Louis lies out on his stomach, claiming that he wants to work on his tan, but Harry knows it’s because he wants him to trace patterns out on his back, loves the simple intimacy of it.

His heart’s in his throat as he does it, reaches out to write the three words as clearly as he can across the small of Louis’ back, swallows sharply when he’s finished.

Louis looks up at him with stunned eyes, sits up and says, “Really?”

“Really.”

He’s kissing him then, doesn’t know how it’s happened, only knows that Louis is licking into his mouth like they’re not on a beach in Australia where anyone in the world could see them.

“Need to get back _right now_ ,” Louis says into his mouth, “I want to do things to you that’ll get us arrested if we do them out here.”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever gotten up so quickly in his life.

It’s only later, after Louis has taken him apart with his hands and mouth, fucked him so slowly and deliberately that it was almost painful, when they’re lying pressed against each other that Louis says it back, tells him “I love you too.”

****

When they arrive in Brisbane, Louis immediately says, “I don’t wanna go home yet.”

“Sure,” Harry says absentmindedly, already making mental arrangements, “What do you wanna do?”

“I always wanted to go to the Great Barrier Reef?”

So they do, ditching the Kombi and flying up direct from Brisbane. They splash out on a hotel in Cairns, going the five-star route, and Harry’s liked the roadtrip, but there’s some luxuries that once you get used to, are difficult to give up.

They hire a boat to take them out on the cruise to the reef, because Harry’s already anticipated the amount of families on their Christmas vacations, and he’s quite enjoying the not being mobbed bit, figures they’ll milk it for as long as they can.

It’s absolutely beautiful there, water stretching out as far as they can see around them, and Harry kind of wants to write love sonnets to this country. Snorkeling is quite the experience, the amount of life underwater almost shocking, but it’s possibly the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. The fish darting amongst the coral and the colour and life of it all is one of those reminders of how much there is in the world, how much of it he hasn’t seen and still wants to. Louis is equally amazed, and they exchange looks every so often which are a mixture of _oh my god_ and _holy shit wow_ and _I really want to kiss you right now_ (because they’re only human, really).

They spend a few days in Cairns, but they’re tired and Louis is ready to go home and Harry will follow him anywhere in the world he wants at this point, so he calls up and books the private jet from Brisbane, telling the boys when they’re coming back.

On their second last night in Australia, while they’re walking along the beach and looking at the half-crescent of the moon, Harry has an itching under his skin, one that he hasn’t felt in a while.

“It’s time for a new tattoo,” he announces, standing up from the sofa in their hotel.

“Okay, Mr. Pain Kink,” Louis teases, “I saw you last time, practically getting off from it.”

“No, I mean it,” Harry insists, “I want something to remember Australia by. To remember this trip by.”

“Oh,” Louis says, “Alright, then.”

They head to a parlour that Harry’s usual tattoo artist had texted them as a recommendation, and a couple of hours later, they’ve got permanent souvenirs of their two weeks here. Harry had wanted something matching, so they’d gotten the moon as it’d looked the night before, glimmering in the night sky – Harry just above his heart (“Because you’re a right sap,” Louis teases), and Louis in the same spot that Harry has his star.

****

They both sleep through most of the flight home, as exhausted as they ever are after their tours, but this time for different reasons. When Harry wakes, Louis is curled into him, looking delicate and fragile, and he really doesn’t want to wake Louis up, but they’re about to land, so he does it with a soft kiss.

“Hi, love, ‘bout to land,” he murmurs.

Louis smiles up at him. “Hey, promise me something?” He asks.

“Anything,” Harry says, and means it.

“Don’t let us fall apart again. And try to remember how much I love you when you think I’m being an utterly insufferable prat,” Louis laughs, but Harry sees through it, sees the genuine worry in his eyes.

“I won’t let anything happen to us,” he vows.

When they get into their arrival area, they’re expecting a driver to be standing there, ready to take them home, but they’re greeted with three familiar faces, standing there with ridiculous grins on their faces, and Niall is wearing a fucking fake moustache, and Harry does not tear up, absolutely not, except for the part where he kind of does.

Louis just laughs, though, says, “What the absolute fuck, Niall,” and then they’re all off, laughing so hard that Liam actually has to sit on the ground of the terminal, and Louis jumps on him until they’re all in a ridiculous pile (and Harry remembers leaving for the last leg of their tour, remembers feeling broken but whole at the same time) on top of each other, tears of joy streaming from their eyes.

“I missed you fuckers so much,” Niall says, and it’s Harry’s favourite thing about Niall that he’s always so unabashed, so carefree in his affections, and he grins brightly.

“Hey, lads,” Louis says, voice going serious, “Me and Harry have something to tell you.”

Harry turns to him, smiling already, and Louis just leans over and kisses him – it’s only a peck, but the other three cheer, and he’s pretty sure Zayn says “finally”, which, well, yeah.

****

The other three end up coming back to Louis’ flat with them, sitting around on their couch for a few hours before Louis and Harry all but kick them out, pleading jet lag. The looks on their faces tell them they know it’s not really about that, and Liam says, “I refuse to be kicked out of my own best friend’s home just so that two of my best friends can have sex. I actually refuse.”

“Have you quite finished?” Louis asks, and then closes the door on him.

Harry’s almost dragged to bed after that, but they don’t have sex, don’t even get off. They just hold each other with a steady sort of calm, murmuring about what they’re going to do.

“I suppose we should tell our parents,” Harry says, mentally groaning at the thought.

Louis seems to feel the same, sighing, “God, they’re gonna be so fucking smug about it, aren’t they. Feel like everyone knew apart from us.”

“Apart from _you_ , Louis,” Harry corrects, nuzzling into him.

“Fine,” Louis pouts petulantly, and it’s so adorable that Harry really has no choice but to kiss it off.

“I love you, y’know?” He says, “We’ll get through everything. Whatever comes at us.”

“I know. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re my forever.”

And yeah, Harry thinks, forever sounds pretty good to him.

 

 


End file.
